Again Like Dying
by Takigawa Aki
Summary: It's been ten years since they remembered the future - now the time of their meeting. It's disconcerting but oh so right to recognise the way they felt when they have never touched. It's not fate. It's communion. Valentine's Day 10069, bloodplay


**Warnings: Dub-con, violence, bloodplay  
Prompt: **KHRFest: Byakuran/Mukuro - bloodplay; "for a further union, a deeper communion"

**Again Like Dying**

The lotuses should have been a tip-off. The sight of them should have sent him in the other direction.

But sometimes, Mukuro reflected, he wasn't as clever as he thought he was. He stepped into the middle of the room, his heels clicking echoes on the smooth concrete. There was a note in front of the bowl.

It was an expensive bowl, too, he couldn't help but notice. Metalwork. Wide and low, full of water for the lotuses to float freely. Better taste than the Gang would have had. It wasn't their style anyway.

In fact, he didn't remember a table in this room to begin with. It was one of the many smaller chambers in the Kokuyou Land buildings, now a maze of dilapidated buildings that required navigation to reach the heart of their personal quarters. They didn't even bother to clean these old, crumbling passageways.

His fingers paused, hovering over the note. Calligraphy paper. There was a cold grip on his spine now, and he took a long, slow breath as he lifted the sheet. Fountain pen writing, and a wonderful shade of purple to boot. Only one person knew it was his favourite shade.

_Happy Valentine's Day._ How farcical.

"You can come out now," he murmured, a chuckle playing on his lips. "This isn't much of a game if I'm not seeking."

There was a pause, and then the soft sound of a footstep from the opposite doorway. Too close to the center of their home, only a few rooms away. There was a small flash of protectiveness in his mood, as spoiled as it already was. A thread of apprehensive excitement ran through him as if sewed with a needle. He could practically feel the sting.

"I thought we could celebrate." Beautiful lilting voice. Product of an angel's rape.

"There will be cause for celebration when you join me in hell," was Mukuro's pleasant response, turning his head to glance over his shoulder. "But not in the living realm."

That brought a laugh, and it came with a breath that brushed his cheek. "You've been avoiding me quite awhile."

He didn't like having someone over his shoulder-not someone he trusted to stab him in the spine. Slowly he turned, batting away the hand that tried to lift his chin. Ah, that face. Mukuro didn't like having to look up to meet his gaze. He stood too close, but Byakuran had never been one to respect boundaries.

"I waited very patiently," he continued, an edge of reverence in his croon. "It will be ten years this summer. But it's lovers' day; I couldn't wait for the date."

Too familiar, the fingers that brushed down his face. "I've not had bated breath," Mukuro murmured, his tone dry. "I was unaware that we were reenacting your downfall."

There was a soft hiss and this time both hands were on his cheeks, and they were warm. Compassionate people had cold hands, wasn't that the saying? So apt. But he did appreciate the heady perfume that came with them...

"Ten years ago we remembered now." There was an odd look in those violet eyes. It was the dazed reverence whenever he had regarded his ring-given ability...now. The now of ten years before. The memories of the future. "We were only familiar with each other of now. It would be like cheating fate to unite early, wouldn't it, Mukuro?"

"That's not how I would describe it." Fate. Fate was made by hands. Just like he'd shaped his own. "You've forgotten an important part of the Other Time, Byakuran." He'd thought about it a lot, reflected on the nature of changing time, of cheating fate. The Other Time was how he'd come to reconcile that timeline. What else could it be? It had been as real as this one. "It wasn't fate when you trapped me."

Another chuckle, but this time there was a new tension in his lips when they spread into a smile. "Perhaps not." There was appreciation in his eyes now as he held Mukuro's gaze. "Not fate, then. Just the universe."

His brows furrowed a little and Mukuro started to step back, away from him, with a frown of disapproval, but the hands on his face dropped to hold his jacket, earning a "tsk" of disapproval.

"I delved into a lot of realities, and you wouldn't believe how many ways we met." His smile was growing slowly. "How many times we fell together. What else could it be, then?"

He didn't like the line of this, the leading insinuation at the end. Of course there were realities where they were together. Every possible outcome had its own reality-had its own _infinite_ realities, where every other possible outcome was enacted.

And it was very possible, considering, that they would end up together in several. Perhaps even romantically. Byakuran was a very powerful individual, had the aura of one; and Mukuro appreciated a good aura. The thought had him nibbling his lower lip, and he knew by the twitch in his brows that Byakuran had noticed.

Valentine's Day. Of course the fool would choose this day.

Not that he really was a fool. He had the foolishness of a saint and the craftiness of a devil. Moral idiocy. But then again, that was the worst kind.

"What do you expect then?" he asked, surprised by the softness of his own words. He should have been angry. Not just the indignant, offended sort of angry; the howling, spit-upon, violent fury that he would have expected to come from this man finding any romance in the torture he'd put Mukuro through. It was ugly, painful, powerful, forced him to his knees and stripped away all of his pride and all of the lingering shreds of his humanity. It was hell.

But there was a reason Mukuro was not a bitter man. He _liked_ hell.

Perhaps his breath had hitched because of that thought. But he knew it was because Byakuran's hands had tightened on his collar, pulled him forward violently, and he nearly fell forward against him but managed at the last moment to maintain an inch between them. _Stop looking down your nose._

"Union," Byakuran murmured, the corners of his lips flickering. Suddenly there was an edge in his smile. A razor's edge, he thought with a flash of concern. He knew that blade too well. "The fulfillment of ten years of waiting. Haven't I been on your mind, Mukuro?"

The more he came to recognize his own body from the Other Time, the more he'd been reminded of what Byakuran had done to it. Of course he'd been on his mind. He'd _taken over_ his mind.

"I make wonderful dreams," he hissed, "but I had no hand in the one you're dreaming." He started to move back, shrugging off the grip, but Byakuran's fingers didn't give. His hips bumped the table and abruptly he was bared back against it, forced horizontal. It was difficult not to struggle, to thrash, to attempt to dig his heels into the face that hovered over his. His breath on his lips, cold water in his hair. A lotus caressed his ear.

Too familiar, the hand on his throat. He knew every line of that palm. The only unfamiliarity was the lack of a ring, the missing cold band to burn his skin. He might even have missed it as he felt the squeeze that cut off his breath, and Mukuro's lips parted as he made a little pained sound and glared upwards, refusing to give him the satisfaction that would come with his struggling. He laid limp instead, feeling the water soak up to his scalp, his arms spread on the surface. Open.

The blade that glinted in the light wasn't Byakuran's smile this time.

"I'm not dreaming, Mukuro," he murmured, his voice hushed with anticipation. "Haven't you missed me? I've missed seeing you like this." _Broken, he means. Twisted past recognition. _"Don't you remember how you loved the way I touched you?" Love wasn't the word for it. He had reveled in it. Reveled in the wrongness of it. The perverse, sick pleasure of being laid helpless, as Mukuro had never been. Relinquishing power that made responsibilities which wore him to the bone. Giving up control.

Not just giving it up. Having it used over him. He liked the bestiality of it. Simple. Simple like hell. Simple like pain.

But that _knife..._

The grip on his throat eased only enough for him to take a gasping breath, his chest arching. His shirt lifted as the knife was slid beneath it, and he felt the cold metal against his stomach before it rose and sliced a slow line up to his collar. There was admiration in Byakuran's eyes as the material fell back and he lay exposed to the waist, staving off a shiver at the cool air. He could feel his nipples harden, but perhaps that was because of his gaze rather than the cold.

He could see his own reflection in the knife as it descended to his cheek. The freezing metal raised goosebumps on his arms as the side caressed his jaw, traced the lines of his lips. A shiver passed through his shoulders. "You're mad, Byakuran."

That brought a quicksilver flash of mirth that might have been mixed with affection. Violet sparkled in a way that made Mukuro's stomach turn. "I suppose that's a wonderful bonding point for the two of us," he purred, voice deepening into a husky sound that had him arching his back up into the hand that traveled from his neck over his skin. "Every line just like I remember."

Mukuro knew better than to think there was anything remotely good to come out of this. He was going to get hurt. He was going to be broken, and Byakuran was going to enjoy it. But that was the point. A thumb brushed one of his nipples and he sighed with a little bit of pleasure, tilting his head to the side and then grimacing at the water that lapped at his face. He had more pride than this. But somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if he hadn't really been waiting for this ever since they'd met as teens...

And the thought didn't really bother him.

He knew he wasn't going to turn down his vice. Byakuran wasn't going anywhere. Mukuro wasn't refusing him. For a long moment he was torn, watching a lotus flower drift by his nose, wondering at whether or not the half-hearted effort at restraint was doing him any favours. So far he couldn't find any.

Byakuran's lips caressed his neck, and he melted a little into the heat of it, the way his hair brushed Mukuro's chin. "This isn't comfortable," he murmured, a wry smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he lifted a hand and ran fingertips through pale hair. Byakuran was purring, looking pleased as he straightened and watched as Mukuro turned his head, his eyes on the knife that was still in his hand. "Why the blade?" His voice was hushed as he looked up at his face, brows furrowed thoughtfully.

He'd done a lot of things to Mukuro in the Other Time. He'd shed a lot of Mukuro's blood. But he didn't remember his ever needing a knife to do that.

"Get comfortable," was his snickering reply. "I plan on claiming all of your night, Mukuro."

And it wasn't worth fighting, but he was going to do it, anyway, because he was a man of pride. As ironic as that was.

Byakuran's shoulders had dropped ever so slightly, his smirk widening as Mukuro surrendered beneath his touch. When Mukuro slammed the heel of his hand into Byakuran's nose, he reeled back, an odd light flickering on in his eyes. His hand rose and he touched his nose; his fingers drew away red with blood. Mukuro couldn't help but smirk with satisfaction at the tangy smell.

"Then claim it," he taunted wickedly, "I dare you, _love._"

But he knew better even so. His trident was across the room, too far to reach; when he aimed his heel at Byakuran's neck, a hand snatched his ankle in the air, an inch from his target, and pulled him off balance. Water ran down his back from his wet hair, plastering his shirt to the curve of his spine.

It was all he could do to make an illusion that caught Byakuran's attention, but it passed uselessly through him. Of course he could see through them, he knew Mukuro. He knew what to expect. It was only enough to let him free his foot, and when he did he took off through the door, hissing as a shiver passed through his shoulders at the cool moisture. He was moving deeper into the maze, knowing he couldn't shake Byakuran off, looking for an advantage. If he led him to the others, Byakuran would only massacre them all; he had to keep him away from them. And there was only one place that they would never be, and where he might have been able to gain the upper hand. His box weapon was sitting in the dresser in his room.

Mukuro slammed the door shut behind himself, hoping to gain a second to pull open the drawer and press his ring into the slot on its side, but just as they were about to connect a strong grip grabbed his shoulders and slammed him forward, pressing his cheek painfully against the top of the desk. He lost his grip on the box and heard it kicked towards the door.

Damn it.

A little sound of pain left his lips as he was yanked up by the hair. "We know you're better than that, Mukuro," Byakuran hissed into his ear. "Don't insult me. If you want to get away, fight. These half-hearted attempts are only making me angry."

He could hear the smile in his voice, though, and the wider that Byakuran smiled, the more dangerous he was.

With a surprised yelp he was pushed violently back onto the bed, knees catching on the edge of the mattress and tripping him onto it with a little hiss. It was a simple affair, mattress on springs, metal bar headboard, set in the center of the room. It made people uncomfortable. He liked that. It didn't seem to phase Byakuran, though, when he pounced on Mukuro and cuffed him across the cheek.

The single rivulet of blood on Byakuran's lip was smeared but drying. There was violence in his grin as he straddled Mukuro's waist, holding him down with his body, a hand pressing his chest down. The weight made it difficult to breathe. His cheek was swelling. "Get on with it!" he growled, giving one lunge against his hand before he settled back, accepting the restraint for now.

He only purred as he wrapped the bedsheet around Mukuro's wrists and tied them firmly to the headboard with a smirk of satisfaction. "Don't be so impatient," he snickered, "I told you I'm taking you all night." The light was dimmer here, and the knife didn't glint so maliciously as he pricked his own finger. "We're gods, aren't we, Mukuro?" Suddenly there was a speculative tone in his tone, a thoughtful look on his face. "And how do gods make union...?"

The implication had him paling as Byakuran pressed his bleeding finger against Mukuro's lips. "Through _communion._" He forced the digit into his mouth when his lips didn't give, watching intently as his captive cringed, holding his gaze.

Metallic, heady, musky taste. He knew that taste already, had tasted it numerous times. It was a wonder that it tasted the same as his own. His mouth felt suddenly dry.

"There must be a reason that blood has been sacred for thousands of years," Byakuran murmured triumphantly, removing his finger and letting his focus drift lower. "There's power in it. Life." The knife edge traveled slowly down his breastbone, traced one side of his ribs, just enough to sting. It was gratingly cold.

"You're insane."

But the accusation had no weight, and they both knew it.

The knife pressed harder, slowly, and blood welled to the surface around it. Mukuro's breath hitched with pain. "Do you really want to scar me?" he muttered, voice thick with irritation, the taste of Byakuran's blood still in his mouth. The only reply he got was a snicker.

He couldn't see it, but he felt the warm liquid that pooled at his collarbones, and he felt the fingertips that trailed through it and drew lines up his throat. He felt them hesitate at the knot there and stroke it slowly, and it bobbed under their touch as he swallowed. Byakuran's eyes were as intent as a laser as he drew the tip of the knife over his ribs, earning a soft gasp before Mukuro managed to bite back a whimper. More blood spilled, dripping onto the sheets now, running down his side, pooling at his navel.

Vaguely he wondered if the intention all along had been to kill him like this.

Already he was a little dizzy, and when Byakuran's tongue lapped at an open cut he had to close his eyes to fend off nausea. A little sound built in the back of his throat when his lips were pried apart with Byakuran's and he tasted himself on his tongue. There was something deeply sensual about it that tried to seize him, that burned down his throat like liquor and left him just as lightheaded as a shot of bourbon. A bloody hand smeared over his cheek, leaving him with the wet, sticky print.

His eyes opened slowly to see the knife slicing Byakuran's arm, leaving a gash just below the inside of his elbow, and he held the wound over Mukuro's mouth, prompting him to part his lips with a pinch. The small, but steady, stream lasted several moments, and a shiver passed through him. The taste was revolting and addictive at once, and he felt drunken already. There was barely an objection as his captor slipped between his thighs and pulled his trousers off with a small grunt of frustration when the fabric bunched at the top of one of his boots and he had to free it with a yank.

The jolt made him gasp, and he frowned at the sudden cold, but Byakuran had leaned over him, pressing his clean chest to Mukuro's, chaotically bloodied, and his warmth made up for it as their tastes mixed on their lips. It was a soft touch first, a chaste kiss, a little distance before they pressed together again, gradually deepening till their lips parted and he felt Byakuran's tongue brush his. He tasted sweet, even beneath the heady sensation that came with it.

There was blood on the hand that stroked his hips, blood on the knife that slid over and into the skin that covered them. It dripped from his thighs, made rivulets to his knees when he arched his back. The world had narrowed, and he only realized for a moment that it was blood loss before the thought slid away into sensation. He felt drunk. It felt surreal, and he wondered if perhaps this was communion, if maybe there was something ethereal about exchanging life like this. It felt spiritual. He felt high.

The hand that wrapped around him and stroked slowly earned a soft gasp. His toes curled in his boots. "You're aroused," Byakuran murmured with mild delight, licking his scarlet fingertips. He seemed to savour the taste as his gaze roamed, first over Mukuro's form with interest and then around the room.

His brows furrowed as Byakuran leaned over him, reaching for the nightstand and snatching a jar from its surface. "Here I thought the beautiful skin was natural," he prodded with a hint of a smirk. "Shea butter, hm?"

With pursed lips Mukuro eyed him, impatient, unamused with the impromptu observation. He had to swallow before he could speak, and even then his voice was husky. "What are you doing?"

Slowly unscrewing the lid, leaving red prints on the labels, his smile spread. Dipping his fingers into the butter, Byakuran gave a soft purr, marveling a little at the texture and rubbing it between his fingertips. "You'll thank me."

He lowered his hand and Mukuro's eyes widened a little as he felt them between his thighs, prodding into him experimentally. By now he knew better than to be shocked, had known that this was going to lead here, but still he bit his lip at the intrusion as a finger slipped in, slick with the moisturizer. It was at once alien and familiar, and when he bent his knees his thighs quivered.

In the Other Time, their first had been anything but pleasant. He found himself tense with anticipation and concern both and focused on watching Byakuran's face, the way the corner of his lips twitched when he slid in a second finger, the dilation of his pupils that meant he wanted him.

Maybe if he weren't so dizzy he wouldn't have been so yielding, following the lead, taking every bait and willingly opening himself. But he was, and his blood ran thick with desire. The warm drops that slowly trailed down his skin felt like caresses. The scent of it hung heavy in the air.

Slowly spreading his fingers, Byakuran watched him with hunger, even licking his lips. His gaze met Mukuro's and he smirked, twisting his hand and bringing a soft moan from the man beneath him. By the time the third finger had slipped inside, digits buried to the knuckles and curved to pleasure him, Mukuro was gasping softly and the blood flow was slowing from the older cuts. His eyes were closed so he only felt the hand that cupped his arousal retreat, the blade begin to slice again, this time his arms. He quivered, moan close to a sob as he pressed a wonderful spot inside him.

Byakuran picked up his thighs, hooked Mukuro's knees on his shoulders, ran his hands lightly over the leather, leaving trails of blood that would stain their polish.

Hyperaware of the cool air against his skin, he didn't need to open his eyes to see Byakuran as he tossed away his trousers. He knew exactly what he looked like, the intoxicated, feral smirk that was on his face as he pressed their hips together and scraped his fingernails down the sensitive skin beneath Mukuro's arms, massaging with his fingertips to urge cuts to begin bleeding again. As dizzy as he was, he knew exactly what it would feel like when Byakuran was inside him, and he wanted it as much as he balked at the idea, and he wanted it all the more when he felt him rub against his ass shamelessly.

A wicked snicker struck his ears as he cried out, trembling as Byakuran began to push into him, guiding himself with one hand and grabbing his throat with the other. The yell was choked against his grip and his chest fluttered up and down with the struggle for breath. He was going to pass out by the end of this, and he didn't want to be so helpless before Byakuran, but he might as well have already been unconscious, as much control as he already had.

Occasionally there was a pause, and Byakuran moved back an inch before he pressed forward again, and each time Mukuro choked, the drying blood on his cheek cracking. His hair was still wet and it made him shiver, only adding to the perpetual shaking of his entire body.

It may have been only a small part of his body, but it felt as though he was being filled in every fibre. His fingertips tingled, but that may have been from the sheets tied tightly around his wrists. The closed cuts broke open again under his racing heartbeat. There was a feeling like electricity, both exciting and painful, that wiped out any chance at logical thought.

As he started to roll his hips, Byakuran sliced long cuts down the insides of his thighs, rubbing a hand in the blood that spilt before he wrapped it around his arousal. Mukuro's breath went ragged, the little that passed through his stranglehold. Saliva dripped from his lips down his cheeks, drawing smeared rivulets in the stains.

"Isn't it worth the wait?" came the inevitable purr, the smug sound of victory, gritty with the harsh edge of desire. He squeezed both hands at the same time, jerking his hips forcefully. It felt as though he was bleeding on the inside, too, despite the slick butter. Maybe that was only the heat leaking from the cock that seemed to be stirring up his insides into a jigsaw puzzle.

It did things to their connection that made Mukuro moan when his leg was shifted, one left over Byakuran's shoulder, the other moved to wrap around his waist. His eyes rolled back, lids thankfully closed, when his leg was pushed down, against his chest, against the wounds, so that their lips could press violently together again. There was a sting and he tasted more blood, felt teeth nip at him again, let his tongue be suckled and bitten, dizzied by the back-and-forth motion of their kiss made by their friction.

The heat had turned to burning and there was horrible soreness mixed in with pleasure, and he felt high when they mixed, unable to feel his legs or arms. He was going to come, he was going to pass out, there was no telling which would be first, either way it didn't matter because afterwards he was at this man's mercy and he was probably going to bleed out onto the mattress. There was a little vein of desperation that threaded its way into his mind, and that was like spiking the drug already in his mind.

When he went tense, trembling, a loud, hoarse cry in his throat, and came into Byakuran's hand, mind wiped blank as if by a wave that swept across his consciousness, there was only a moment of lucidity before everything went blank and he fell limp.

The darkness welcomed him eagerly.

-x-

The number on the clock was less than the fingers on one hand when Mukuro's eyelids flickered open. The first thing he felt was soreness, and the second, stinging. It was dark, and he couldn't see himself, but when he moved he felt warm bandages wrapped around his torso, his thighs. Felt a painful bruise on his neck that made it hurt to swallow. He felt clean, though, at least on the outside. The sheets weren't stiff with blood, so they'd been changed. The mattress beneath would have to be replaced anyway.

A careful movement of his legs and he grimaced, sinking back into the pillow. He itched, deep inside, and the thought made him grit his teeth and screw his eyes shut. When he turned the light on, there was an orchid bloom sitting on the pillow beside his head, and it sat atop a lotus, perched on its petals.

He cursed as he swiped them to the floor, moaning softly at the soreness of his arms, and turned the light back off.


End file.
